Until The End of Forever
by WingedWhale
Summary: Established Mystrade with an angsty slice of Johnlock on the side. Mycroft and Lestrade are living together in domestic bliss when an event drops a tortured and haunted back-from-the-grave Sherlock pretty much into their laps. Lestrade does what he does best . . . bring out the best in the man he loves with all of his heart, body, and soul. Fluff and smut abound!
1. Chapter 1

They say that opposites attract. But divorce rates offer staggering statistics that more often than not, they don't. Life is almost always anything but a fairytale. Sometimes though, with a little luck and maybe a pinch of magic, the odds can be overcome and conquered. Happiness, true soul-deep ecstasy, can be found and protected for the rare treasure that it is.

Mycroft Holmes stared at the man sleeping softly upon his stomach, his face turned towards him. The early morning light filtered through the bedroom window and limned the man's prematurely grey hair in a silvery-gold glow. The elder Holmes brother was struck at how heart-wrenchingly beautiful the man was.

The world was a place of such chaotic brutality. Change, the ever-present force that marched along with the progression of time, was hardly ever predictable. And even when it was, moments in time were singular and fleeting. What was here now could be gone tomorrow. Entropy was present in every particle of the universe. The progress of change was inexorable. It was quite possibly the one and only truism of this plane of reality occupied by humanity.

Mycroft closed his eyes, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his bed-partner. The man hardly ever got a full night's worth of sleep. And as Mycroft could well sympathize from personal experience, he deserved the chance to catch up whenever he could. He simply admired Gregory Lestrade's sleep-relaxed facial features, a bubbling warmth suffusing his chest as he took in the sight.

They'd been together for a bit over a year now. And yet there were times even now when he would awake in the gloaming of the predawn hours and marvel that this priceless gem of a man was truly flesh and blood and not some imagined fantasy.

Anthea had told him once in a moment of bald candor that she firmly believed this man had saved Mycroft from his own self-destruction. The grief that assaulted every second of his existence after Sherlock's demise had very nearly pushed him over the edge. And while it may have never outwardly affected his ability to conduct his affairs of State, it had left him a frozen and shadowed husk of a man who many had deemed frigid and nearly heartless even before his little brother's suicide.

But this man, this glorious man, with whom he now shared his bed had somehow found a way to glue together the shattered fragments of his soul.

His handsome doe-eyed DI never ceased to amaze. Mycroft certainly hadn't made things easy. Yet Gregory had stayed, even when the vast majority of other people would have thrown their hands in the air and given up. Over the weeks and months that followed Gregory had shown him that he still had the capacity to feel things that were wholly different from pain, grief, guilt, and self-loathing. He'd reached into Mycroft's heart without so much as a by-your-leave and had found the merest spark of joy that lay buried in the depths of the elder Holmes brother's tortured heart. And against all odds, he'd drawn that spark out and carefully nurtured it into a blazing fire.

Mycroft knew he loved this man as fully and deeply as the human heart allowed. He wanted nothing more than to wake up next to Gregory Lestrade every morning for the rest of his days. They had never talked about marriage, . . . not with the antiquated legislature still on the books. But things were changing fast. In fact, Mycroft had it on Good Authority that a marriage law was almost going to certainly be ratified in the next month.

He allowed himself a little smile.

For the first time in his life, he was beginning to feel a strange and alien sensation of happiness that he hadn't ever known existed. All because of the forthright, patient, and undeniably charming silver-haired Detective Inspector sprawled in contented slumber beneath his sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A Few Weeks Later . . .**_

Lestrade tied a neat Windsor knot at his collar, pulling and straightening it to within an inch of its life as he looked at his reflection in the mirror of Mycroft's master bathroom. He wasn't sure if sea-foam green was really his color, but it was John Watson's wedding and he was happy to have the honor of being his best man. When the war veteran turned trauma surgeon had asked him to stand up with him, he carefully inserted a comment into the dialogue that when Lestrade married again he'd be quite chuffed to return the favor. Lestrade had merely smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a little wink.

Lestrade walked out of the bathroom to find Mycroft sitting on the black leather loveseat, his left ankle crossed over his right knee as he quietly murmured instructions into his mobile. He was dressed in one of his finest suits, a stunning deep grey pinstriped ensemble with a dark teal silk vest. His collar hung open at the neck, exposing one of the rather adamant love-bites Lestrade had given him the night before. The abused skin had just started to go from splotchy red to a rather fetching shade of purple.

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft said and ended his call, looking up at his lover as he did so. "The wine is on schedule to arrive in less than an hour. I've left detailed instructions with the caterers to exchange it for what was originally ordered."

Lestrade blinked and couldn't help but smile.

"John's going to flip out. I can't even begin to imagine the look on his face."

Mycroft stilled. "John was very fond of my brother," he said softly. "And Sherlock fond of him. I can't help but do something for the man on his wedding day, something he'll never forget in honour my brother's memory and the close friendship they shared."

Lestrade sat down next to him, settling his hand on Mycroft's knee. He hadn't really been surprised when John had foregone any and all festivities even remotely resembling a stag party. The man couldn't bear the thought of stirring up memories of Sherlock.

"Leave it to Mycroft Holmes to surprise the wedding party by secretly having the champagne swapped out for wine that costs £10,000 a bottle."

"I'm also having a bottle sent to John's hotel-suite tonight."

Gregory cracked a grin. "Watch, nine months from now they'll have twins named Romanée and Conti. What makes this wine so bloody fantastic that only people with obscene wealth can afford it? For all you know, he could hate the stuff."

"I assure you, Romanée-Conti is rightly heralded as the finest wine in all the world." He looked at the DI and covered the other man's hand with his own. "Shall I tell you what Roald Dahl once said of it?" His voice dropped down into a sinfully wicked depth of tone. Heat lanced through Lestrade's stomach at the minute change of inflection in Mycroft's voice. How was it that this man could so thoroughly arouse him with the sound of his voice alone?

"What did he say?"

"He said that to drink Romanée-Conti is the equivalent of experiencing orgasm simultaneously within one's mouth and nose." Mycroft's voice was a silken and wicked whisper in his ear and it was undoing Lestrade's self-control in near world record-breaking time. Lestrade swallowed hard, excruciatingly aware that they were due to leave in fifteen minutes. He took in the look of Mycroft's Hardly enough time to . . .

A smart knock on the door jarred both of them from their trance. Mycroft let out a sighing groan and proceeded to place a light kiss to Lestrade's lips.

"Ah, that'll be Annie. Just as well I suppose. I think this conversation is best left for later in the evening, my love."

Mycroft rose to his feet and Lestrade barely suppressed the subconscious urge to softly whimper at the woman's timing.

"Are the two of you fine gentlemen fully clothed yet?"

"Unfortunately, yes!" Lestrade shouted at her, not quite succeeding in concealing his irritation. The door opened and Anthea practically bustled in. In a rare show of emotion, her face was all smiles. The DI arched a brow as she thrust a file into Mycroft's hands.

"Sir! Look what's slated for Monday's session!"

Lestrade's brows lifted even more. What the hell, the woman was practically _gushing!_ His jaw dropped promptly to the floor to complete the picture of utter bewilderment as Mycroft's eyes widened and Anthea actually clapped her hands in sheer childlike excitement.

Lestrade watched his lover's breath catch in his throat as he reread the document before finally raising his gaze to that of his PA. He had to fight hard to resist the urge to ask what all the fuss was about. He didn't think he'd ever seen the indomitable and ever-so-poised woman so unabashedly emotional.

Mycroft shifted his gaze from Anthea to Lestrade.

"What, is Parliament passing a law that gives women paid time off from work during menstruation?" he quipped, using humor to combat his discomfort at being out of the loop. The woman gave him a look that plainly said the only reason she hadn't physically swatted his shoulder was because she wouldn't display such unladylike behavior in front of Mycroft.

Shockingly, Mycroft actually held the file out for him to read. He took it and suddenly felt his heart skip a beat as he read the header of the outline.

_Marriage Law . . . There shall be a vote to hereby recognise the legitimacy of same-sex unions under the same status and benefits of traditional marriage within the jurisdiction of England and Wales. _There was more text in political jargon and clauses that would allow all previous civil unions to be awarded legal marriage status. Lestrade handed the paper back to Anthea.

"What are the chances of it actually passing?" he asked.

"The bill will be given a third reading in the House of Lords and once all of the proposed amendments are reviewed in full, it's really just a formality really. I expect Royal Assent to be granted within the following days."

"Shall I try to catch Mary's bouquet, then?" Lestrade asked with a grin. Stoic as he so often was at his partner's unique breed of sarcasm, Mycroft couldn't help but let his lips twitch into a small smile.

"I rather think we can inform her that she can do away with the bouquet toss altogether."

There was a gleaming flicker in the DI's eyes that spoke more than any words could express. The profoundness of emotion in the deep pools of his brown eyes made Mycroft's own emotions swell. Lestrade stood up and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's body, neither man caring about Anthea's proximity. He slipped a hand round the back of the politician's head and placed a slow open-mouthed kiss against his lips. He then stilled his mouth and murmured, "You have no idea how much I want to be your husband."

Mycroft squeezed Lestrade's hip with his hand and pulled back.

"Surely, I may have _some_ idea? Perhaps even enough of one for you to understand how much _I _want _you_ to pledge yourself to me forever in matrimony?"

Lestrade smiled. He was just about to recapture Mycroft's lips when a delicate female cough sounded from where Anthea still stood not two meters away.

"I'd usually take this as my cue to leave, but there's a car waiting in the drive to take you to the Morstan-Watson wedding. As Gregory signed on as Mr. Watson's best man, I'm fairly certain he'd appreciate it if the two of you arrived at the venue on time."

"Oh. Right." Lestrade muttered. "I wouldn't want John cross with me." He looked sheepishly at the elder Holmes brother and picked up his jacket from where it lay carefully folded across the back of the leather loveseat. "Though Mycroft _is _furnishing the wedding with £10,000 wine, so maybe he wouldn't mind if we were fashionably late?" The DI was clearly joking and slid a glance at Mycroft playfully.

"Actually, Gregory, if you wish to be technical about it, it's 15,000 a bottle."

"How many bottles did you buy again?"

"Merely enough to satisfy the needs of everyone involved."

Lestrade snorted. "Come on, let's go watch John's eyes pop out of his head when he realises what you've done."

Despite her best efforts Anthea couldn't quite hide a small smile from her face as the two men left the room and she followed them down the stairs. Once the three of them entered the government car her eyes were once again glued to her Blackberry.

"You know, you have me wondering if I should've had that Blu-Ray player I got them inlaid with gold or something," Lestrade said teasingly to Mycroft as they travelled along the M4.

Mycroft arched a brow imperiously. "I'm afraid that mass produced electronic box would need much more than a gold veneer to even _attempt_ at equaling the Romanee-Conti."

Lestrade didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes and nudge the other man with his elbow. "You're such a priggish git!"

Mycroft met his gaze with deadpan aplomb. "Indeed. Yet here you sit."

"Yeah, you've taught me I'm a right and true masochist. Somehow I managed to live for forty-three years without realising that."

"Yes, I do find that rather shocking."

"I also managed a thirteen year marriage to a woman. Go figure that one out."

"I find that rather shocking, too."

Lestrade glanced over at Anthea. She was typing away at the Blackberry's keypad as usual, like some sort of weird Japanese typing automaton.

Lestrade leant into Mycroft's ear. "Are we sure she's not trying to send data back to her home planet or something?"

Mycroft looked at Anthea. He cocked his head in that same manner as his brother had so often been want to do and continued staring. It was Sunday afternoon, and Mycroft had given her no urgent tasks. Hell, he'd taken the 'day off' as it were, himself.

"Writing a novel over there, Annie?" he asked not unkindly.

At the mention of her name her gaze shot up from her screen.

"Sir?"

"I wasn't aware you were behind on your workload," Mycroft told her. "Honestly, after ten years in my service, I hope you'd tell me if things were piling up on you. I'm more than happy to take some responsibility off your shoulders if there's a problem."

"There isn't a problem. And I'm perfectly caught up with every task you've recently given me."

"Oh. Forgive me then, you just seem . . . _rather engrossed_."

"This is my personal phone, sir."

"Very well."

Mycroft relaxed back against his headrest, letting the conversation lie. The DI however, wasn't so dissuaded.

"It's more than obvious you're aren't texting. You never stop typing."

"No, not texting."

"Filling in your personal time-table with blocks measured down to the nanoseconds then?" Lestrade asked.

"No."

Lestrade turned to Mycroft who was resting with his eyes lightly closed.

"You were right the first time," he declared.

Mycroft didn't open his eyes. "Yes, I know."

"So," Lestrade said regarding Anthea with a smile dancing in his eyes. "What's your novel about?"

What happened then was something that Greg Lestrade would remember for the rest of his life. Anne Althea Porter, Mycroft's most trusted and unassailable employee let out a quick feminine shriek as if she'd been tickled by some phantom monster sitting beside her and very, _very_ nearly dropped her phone.

Mycroft had raised his head at the sound and wore a pitying look of amusement. Anthea quickly tucked her phone back inside her handbag.

"You'll laugh if I tell you," she said.

"Probably. Tell me anyways."

Mycroft slanted him a look. He then turned his attention to Anthea.

"I'd apologise for my association with this man, Annie, would it not for the fact I'm not the least bit sorry to have him around. I know it may not seem like it but I assure you, he does have his uses."

"It's quite alright, sir. And Gregory, it's sort of a cross between fantasy and science-fiction, if you really _must_ know."

"No kidding, really?"

Anthea sighed, coloring slightly despite her determined attempt at calm composure. "Yes, really."

"Can I read it? You know I'm a huge fan of Star Trek and Game of Thrones."

"I'm well aware. If I'm satisfied with it once it's finished I'll send you a copy. Maybe."

"Are you going to publish?"

Anthea paused. "Haven't decided. After all, it's only an outlet for keeping my sanity while working for your soon-to-be fiancé." Mycroft grumbled wordlessly, sending a mock wounded frown in her direction. "It's become quite a comforting habit. There've been times it was either this or tearing my hair out. I don't fancy looking like Sinead O'Connor."

Lestrade got a curiously interested glint in his gaze. "Do you have a character based on Mycroft?"

Mycroft glanced hopelessly from one to the other. "Why can't you two make polite conversation discussing possible scenarios for the start of World War III like normal people?"

Lestrade forced himself to choke back his laugh solely because he was feeling unusually charitable. "Hate to burst your bubble, Love, but _that_ is _not_ what normal people do." He planted a little kiss on Mycroft's cheek.

Mycroft huffed and pointedly looked out the window.

"Well, do you?" Lestrade asked, giving a pointed look to Anthea.

"Honestly Gregory, I'd almost suspect you were trying to get me sacked."

"So that's a yes, then! Bloody hell! _Do_ tell me more."

"Well my main character isn't human so it's not like you can imagine Mycroft in the role."

Lestrade laughed deeply. "Oh I wouldn't necessarily say that. I'm not exactly sure if this one's fully human either," he said, patting Mycroft on the leg.

Anthea was tight lipped for several seconds. "Sorry," she said at last. "I'm not speaking another word about it."

The rest of the ride consisted of comfortable silence as Anthea predictably went back to her writing. Mycroft's hand entwined with Lestrade's and squeezed affectionately.

"Although clearly there's something wrong with me, I love and adore you, Gregory Lestrade, in ways that shouldn't even be possible." Mycroft raised their clasped hands to his lips and placed a whisper soft kiss against Lestrade's knuckles.

"Remember that will you, next time I forget to throw a beer can in the recycling bin?"

Mycroft smiled. "I'll train that into you yet." He leaned over and whispered into the DI's ear. "_All you need is the proper discipline._"

Lestrade went dead still. "Oh, is that all?" he asked trying to maintain a casual air and failing when his voice nearly broke on the last syllable. Mycroft smirked as if he were the cat who'd just gotten his paws on an entire cage full of canaries.

John's wedding was being held at the London Zoo. Apparently it had special significance in John and Mary's relationship and as a veterinarian, the woman had a great fondness for animals. Anthea stopped typing to wish them both a good time and they were let out of the vehicle near the private pavilion that was reserved for special events.

The sun was trying its damnedest to peak out from behind the clouds as they ascended the concrete steps that led into the modest sized domed building. The building was designed for dinner galas and had atmospheric fan shaped light fixtures along the wall that provided an intimate ambience to the room. A crystal chandelier acted as the centerpiece, hanging above the white clothed tables beneath.

Lestrade noticed that there were wine glasses on the tables in place of champagne flutes.

"Should we check on the wine?"

"No need. I shanghaied one of my armed guards to sign for it and act as its custodian. He texted me not two minutes ago."

There were open doors that led out to a garden and trellised veranda that was a stage for fundraising speeches and wedding ceremonies. They started walking in that direction when a familiar voice called out to them from behind. Turning round they found John approaching with a smile. He looked dapper in a starched tuxedo with a dyed sea-foam sprig of flowers in his lapel.

Mycroft gave the man a cordial greeting and excused himself to the garden. Most of the guests were already seated.

"Ready to end your life as a bachelor?" Lestrade asked.

John grinned. "Ready and eager as ever I was."

"Need anything? Handkerchief, painkiller, lobotomy?"

John punched him lightly in the arm. He met Lestrade's gaze and his expression turned more serious. "Well, to be honest, . . . might I talk to you in private?"

Lestrade expression turned concerned at the sound of John's voice. He tried to think of a logical explanation for John's uneasiness seeing that it was something far more serious than common pre-wedding jitters and came up with nothing.

"There's a men's dressing room in a building across the walk."

"Lead the way."

A minute later they'd entered a spacious dressing suite with suede- upholstered armchairs and a mini-bar in a little area next to the twin sinks and fluorescent lights of the dressing chamber. Lestrade raised an eyebrow as John locked the door behind them before claiming one of the chairs.

John didn't immediately speak and the anticipation of what he was about to say was just about to drive the DI up a wall. He watched as John grabbed his head with his hands and ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

"Look, if you're going to tell me you're gay, I won't say there'll be much of a party today, but it's far better to own up to it now before you take your vows than to deceive the girl in some sham of a marriage."

"It's not that . . . _exactly._"

Lestrade gave him a sharp look askance. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Look, please despite how ridiculous this is going to sound, just here me out. You're the only person I can discuss this with."

Lestrade sighed and sank into the chair beside John's.

"Right. I also think I should remind you that you're due to stand in that garden and watch _your bride_ walk down the aisle in half an hour."

"I am quite aware of that fact, believe me." John blew out a forceful exhalation. "Just promise not to arrest me and throw me in an insane asylum."

"JOHN WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

"Oh God. Now you're yelling."

"Damn straight I am, you aren't making any sense! Are you sure you don't need medical attention or something? Shall I go call off your wedding for you?"

"I . . . _I swear to God I saw Sherlock an hour ago."_

"Oh, John. Sherlock's gone. There was a body. We buried him."

"It was a closed casket though, wasn't it?"

"Fucking Christ. Look, when someone close to you dies, sometimes our minds imagine things."

"It was not my imagination," John said in a low voice. "The man's hair was a little longer and straighter and bleached blonde . . . but Greg . . . his eyes . . . and his face . . . he had Sherlock's nose and lips. And not just a similarity, they were one hundred percent Sherlock. _Exactly_, Greg."

Lestrade blew out a long agonized sigh.

"Does Mary know you and he were obviously more than just best mates?"

"Yes."

"Tell me precisely what happened."

Before John could utter a single word Lestrade's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He was a little surprised to see that it was Mycroft.

"Hello," he said trying to be casual but knowing the man would hear his uneasiness anyways.

"_Gregory . . . _you know the man I mentioned earlier? The one who's watching the wine?"

"What happened?"

"He and I grew up together . . . he's just now called me with the most ludicrous claim I've ever heard . . . I might have threatened to terminate his employment for making such a statement only he's just now presented me with compelling proof . . ."

_OhJesusFuckingChristOnACross_, thought Lestrade. "Let me guess, he sent you a picture of your brother with long platinum blonde hair. John saw him too. I'm with him now."

"I'm sending it to Annie now to get it scanned through facial recognition software. But I'm looking at the picture now, and God help me, Gregory, _it's him._ James has me on an open line with our emergency phones. I can hear Sherlock talking. He's adopted some sort of colloquial Australian accent."

"I think John should be the first to talk to him. Are you okay with that?"

"John has a rather more pressing issue, doesn't he?"

"They were sleeping together, Mycroft."

There was a few seconds worth of silence. "I need to know if there is going to be a wedding or not. That shall determine my next move."

"Call you back as soon as I can?"

Mycroft didn't immediately respond.

"The results of the facial scan are back."

Lestrade held his breath looking at John sorrowfully, knowing that whatever the outcome was, he was going to be in a lot of pain as was at least one other person.

_"It's him, Gregory. Sherlock's alive."_

**A/N: This entire story will be told with Mycroft and Lestrade featured in every scene. There will be Johnlock moments, but only glimpses as expressed within the presence of our favorite politician and DI. If ppl show enough interest there will be a companion Johnlock story, so if that's something you'd like to read, please let me know.**

**This story is written in what I love to call "Anglerican" I'm an American Anglophile who 'hears' the character's exact voices in her head as she types. Thus my dialogue often has British spellings when my descriptions do not.**

**Yes, Sherlock's 'disguise' is based off of his character/performance in The Fifth Estate. Seeing that movie prompted me to write a "Sherlock's Return" story.**

**The wine mentioned does in fact exist as does Roald Dahl's quote.**

**I understand the marriage law bill has already been passed yet still remains to be fully ratified in 2014. For the purposes of this story, please assume that legal marriages can be performed immediately afterwards. Though some time will surely pass as Lestrade and Mycroft plan their wedding.**

**On Novelist!Anthea: The novel idea is truly what first came to mind when I saw how much typing she did on that damn thing) and when she casually said she had loads of free time to John. She needs something portable that can act as an instant de-stressor. Anything mentioned about her novel refers to my own original work of fiction, Empire of Entropy.**

**Have any more questions or just want to chat? Click the PM button.**


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade ended the call with Mycroft and focused his attention on the distraught man in the chair before him. John stared up at him, his eyes bright with feeling.

"Mycroft's confirmed that Sherlock's here, John," he said softly.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, John was jumping out of his seat forcing Lestrade to take a step back to avoid being knocked into.

"Where? Where is he, Greg?" The man's voice was hoarse and strangled with overwhelming emotions.

"Please, John," Lestrade begged. "Calm down."

_"Calm down?"_ the soldier exclaimed, his voice going shrill. "Is that what you would do if our roles were reversed right now?"

Lestrade heaved a miserable sigh. "No, it's not. However, this isn't about me. You need to also think of Mary. You can't leave her at the altar."

John looked at him then. _Really_ looked at him, and the shine within the depths of his eyes told Lestrade precisely how much this man loved Sherlock Holmes. Before he could think, Lestrade's hand flashed out and caught John's shoulder. Hard.

"You're a better man than that, John Watson," the DI said stiffly. "I _know_ you want to see him. Believe me. But first, you must sit your fiancée down and tell her what's happened. Mycroft'll make sure Sherlock doesn't go anywhere."

Lestrade released John and watched as a resigned expression crossed the army surgeon's features.

"Right," he said dejectedly. "Keep him where he's at and I'll give you a ring the very second I'm finished explaining things to Mary.

Lestrade nodded in approval. "He'll stay put. Even if I have to tackle the bastard to the ground and sit on him."

At this John's lips quirked up in a ghost of a smile.

As John went in search of his soon-to-be ex fiancée, Lestrade dialed Mycroft from the shade of an ornamental tree.

"What's John decided?" Mycroft asked.

"He's ending things with Ms. Morstan as we speak."

Mycroft sighed. "I do not envy him."

"He's very much still in love with your brother. I had to convince him not to leave the poor girl at the altar."

"I'm glad you got him to see a bit of sense then. Will you be able to accompany me to go tell Sherlock what's happened?"

"O' course, you know I will. Are you ready to do that now?"

"There's a fountain behind the building we entered. Sherlock's working one of the bar tables in the adjacent garden."

"Sherlock's _tending bar_?" Lestrade asked incredulously. He began walking towards the specified location.

"I can see him now, though I'm far enough away he's not likely to see me with so many people milling about."

"He probably doesn't expect you to be here."

Mycroft let loose a very tired sounding exhalation.

"No, probably not. Are you close?"

Lestrade approached the fountain. It had the sculpture of an African elephant at its centre and the creature's trunk acted as the waterspout. He could just see Mycroft standing by its left rear foot.

"Behind you," Lestrade told him.

Mycroft turned and silently extended a hand out to the man he loved. Lestrade slid his hand against his, entwining his fingers with Mycroft's. He gave his soon to be fiancé's hand a sharp reassuring squeeze. Mycroft slanted him a warm and deeply grateful look.

Hand in hand, the two men walked towards the mobile bar where a bleached blonde Sherlock Holmes was expertly crafting drinks and handing them to guests. The man was so busy that he didn't notice Mycroft and Lestrade approach. He was busy filling a glass with sparkling water for a spritzer when he looked up from his task and met the gazes of the two men. He didn't say a word, and continued to professionally craft the drink, adding a generous portion of Chablis into the glass. He handed it to the woman who ordered it, and stepped out from behind his post so no more guests would ask for drinks.

Mycroft and Lestrade watched as if in a dream as the man they thought was long dead walked up to them. Sherlock met their gazes cautiously. Besides the ridiculously white-blonde hair, the man was wearing a pair of amber brown contact lenses. His disguise was so complete, there was no way that anyone who wasn't close to him would suspect he was the detective who died a fraud.

"Before you say anything, please understand that I've only been in England for three days," Sherlock said, in a very clear Australian accent. Realizing the sound of his own voice, he coughed gently and tried again. "Sorry. It's going to take me some time to adjust to speaking with a British accent again." His words were closer to sounding like his real voice this time, but not entirely so.

Mycroft regarded him icily. "Shall I even ask what you have to say for yourself?"

"For what its worth, I was planning on going to see you in the next couple of days," Sherlock said quietly.

"And when might you have been planning on seeing the man who loves you?" Lestrade asked him.

"I . . . I want John to be happy. Seeing me would only cause him pain. The Sherlock Holmes he knew and fell in love with doesn't exist anymore. _Please,_" he begged softly. "Do not judge things which you do not understand."

Mycroft didn't immediately speak. "Why, Sherlock?" he asked at length, his voice barely audible over the din of the garden and its scores of guests. The blonde man flinched at the sound of that name, his eyes raw with unspoken pain.

"I did it for John," he said simply, his love for the doctor evident in his tone. "And for Mrs. Hudson. And also for you, Greg. You see, Moriarty had each of you in a sniper's crosshairs that afternoon. Fortunately I anticipated his ultimatum before I met him. He wanted to make me choose, my life or the three of yours. So the night before our confrontation, I asked Molly to help me fake my death. And even after Moriarty committed suicide, I still had to go through with the plan. There were at least four of Moriarty's men in London that day and I knew I could never speak another word to any of you unless I killed each and every one of them.

"They had headquarters all over the world. I've been in Berlin, Paris, Reykjavik, Mombasa, and lastly Melbourne."

Mycroft regarded his brother expressionlessly. "Did it _never_ occur to you that I could have helped you?"

"If I had told you I was alive you would have sent your most trusted operatives in search of men that were the very best at keeping themselves hidden. The entire thing took over eighteen months. Not even you have the resources to sustain an undercover operation for that long!"

Mycroft snorted. "You really think not, brother? I would have gladly made a discreet number of resources at your disposal for as long as you might have needed them. I have men who've worked undercover for _years_ at a time Sherlock."

"Be that as it may, you would have never allowed me to participate in the operation. And spending eighteen months sitting round your country estate would have driven me quite insane enough to off myself in earnest, I assure you."

"Tell me, are you deliberately trying to make me throw a punch at you?" Mycroft inquired silkily.

Sherlock sighed. "No. I'm sure John will do that more than readily enough. Since it's past time for the wedding to start, I take it he knows I'm here?"

"He recognised you despite the pains you've taken to conceal your true identity," Lestrade told him. He watched as Sherlock's brows drew together in sorrow.

"I so wanted to see him happy," he said very softly.

"You still love him." Lestrade stated. The look of piercing sorrow reflected in Sherlock's dark gaze touched something deep inside of him. The younger Holmes' eyes shown bright with unshed tears. It was unnerving for Lestrade to see such an open show of strong emotions in the self-proclaimed sociopath. What the hell had happened to Sherlock Holmes during his time away from England?

"Yes, I still believe I do. Despite everything that's happened," Sherlock told them. "Though, there's something you should know, Mycroft."

"Are you a wanted criminal in every city you've listed?" the elder Holmes brother inquired archly.

"No. Though this will probably be more shocking for you."

"I doubt it will be more shocking than seeing you here, Sherlock. What is it?"

"You're an uncle."

Mycroft blinked, his features crinkling in confusion. Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. They glanced at each other and then back to Sherlock. The blonde man turned his head to meet the gaze of another person in the crowd. He motioned for a woman with a plastic baby carrier to approach. When the men saw the woman, dressed in a floral printed sundress, they nearly gaped in surprise.

"Oh, I'm not her mum," Molly Hooper said quickly.

Both men looked back at Sherlock in question.

"The mother's dead," he said flatly, before turning towards the young infant with a pink and white striped frilly outfit. He smiled adoringly down at his baby girl, who blinked and stretched, having recently woken from a nap. "Hi, Sweetheart," Sherlock said to the child. "Did you get bored with Auntie Molly?" He reached down and gently picked his daughter up, cradling her protectively. The little girl stared at him intently, with blue eyes that spoke of a natural intelligence that would one day surely be as sharp as her father's.

"What's her name?" Mycroft asked softly.

"Mirabelle," Sherlock told him.

"How old is she?"

"Five months and three days. Would you like to hold her?"

Mycroft smiled warmly. "I should like that very much." Sherlock smiled back as he transferred his daughter gently into the arms of his elder brother. Mycroft looked into the baby's bright eyes. "Well, hello there, my dear," he said to the girl. She flailed her tiny arms at him. "You aren't quite sure what's going on here, are you?" Mycroft asked in a soft sing song voice.

"I was just going to give her another bottle," Molly said.

Mycroft smiled down at Mirabelle. "Ah yes, food. Always a pleasing thought, isn't it, little one?"

"She looks just like you, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Sherlock smiled. "It appears I've got dominant genes."

Mycroft flicked his gaze to his brother. "Oh, I do hope she's not an exact copy of you. One of you in this world is quite enough, you know."

Sherlock sighed. Molly's gaze was fixed out on the patio.

"There's a man over there with a microphone," she said. They all turned to follow her gaze. Sure enough a man was switching on a microphone at the music booth.

"May I please have your attention ladies and gentlemen?"

Everyone in the garden stopped talking and fixed their gazes upon the speaker.

"My sister has asked me to kindly inform you all that she's called off this afternoon's wedding. She is sorry for any inconveniences and asks that you respect her wishes for privacy at this time."

"Oh, no," Molly murmured. The four adults watched as the throng of people milling around quickly thinned out. Sherlock's gaze was distant as they watched the crowd disappear. Mirabelle let out a little whimper in Mycroft's arms and Sherlock's gaze instantly snapped back to his daughter.

"Mycroft, let Molly feed her. I'd like to talk to Lestrade if I may. Alone."

The Detective Inspector raised an eyebrow as Mycroft carefully passed his niece to the pathologist.

"Please?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure. Whatever you need. Let's take a little walk, yeah?" Lestrade replied.

Sherlock gave him a curt acknowledging nod. The two men walked down the sidewalk towards the car park.

"What's this about, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked once they were a ways away from any other people.

"Can you keep what I'm about to tell you between us?" Sherlock asked. There was an eerie haunted look in Sherlock's gaze.

"I . . . If this is something serious, I urge you to let your brother know."

"I don't think I'd be able to discuss this with him. And when I say that, I mean it literally, as in I honestly don't think I'd be able to speak." There was a troubled undercurrent in his words that made Lestrade's stomach tighten painfully. Sherlock looked at him with a disturbing degree of anxiety. "It's going to be difficult enough for me to tell you. But I'll have to tell John. And right now I know I won't be able to. You're the only one I feel remotely comfortable sharing this with now."

Sherlock was trembling and he hugged his arms around himself and turned away from the Detective Inspector.

"Sherlock . . ." Lestrade said gently, concern evident in his tone.

"You know I was never one to discuss feelings, Lestrade."

"Yeah, I might have noticed."

"I wish I didn't need to mention this to you at all. But it appears that as things are, and John leaving his fiancé . . . I have to. You'll be able to tell me what to say to John. Otherwise . . ." Sherlock sighed unsteadily. He lifted his gaze back in the direction of the garden, making sure the two of them were a safe distance away. The now blonde Holmes brother flicked his dark eyed gaze back to the Detective Inspector.

"I trust you. I mean that, Lestrade. And I know you didn't always work in homicide. You spent four years investigating violent crimes."

"That's right."

Sherlock swallowed hard. He cast his gaze down, and then slowly raised it again.

"I was raped by a man named Sebastian Moran."

Lestrade didn't immediately say anything. His expression was full of serious concern. "When did this happen?" he asked quietly.

"Three months ago. He also shot Mirabelle's mother."

Lestrade's stomach plummeted.

"He would have killed Mirabelle too but fortunately she was visiting her aunts in a suburb of Melbourne that weekend. I knew Moran would be the most dangerous of Moriarty's men, but even I grossly underestimated him."

Sherlock closed his eyes as if to steady himself and Lestrade blew out a slow exhalation. Sherlock opened his eyes again and regarded the Detective Inspector warily.

"Tell me what I can do to help you," said Lestrade.

"The thing is, I don't know," Sherlock said softly. "As I said before, the man you knew as Sherlock Holmes is in actuality quite dead and gone."

"I can help you set up an appointment with a therapist who specialises in this sort of thing," Lestrade offered. Sherlock made a sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat. "The worst thing you can do is blame yourself. I want you to know that you can talk to me, Sherlock. It's not healthy to keep your feelings locked inside of yourself."

"I'm plagued with unrelenting nightmares."

"They'll be certain to come less frequently with time and support. You can talk to me, Sherlock. Anytime, day or night."

Sherlock made another indicative sound of understanding.

"Moran was wearing the same aftershave that John uses. I don't know what I'll do if John gets near me and I smell that scent on him now."

"It's going to be alright, Sherlock. I promise. Okay?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a more than slightly skeptical look.

"Take a deep breath with me," the DI told him. "In through your nose and out through you mouth. Ready? One, two, three breathe."

Lestrade watched carefully as Sherlock followed his instructions and took in a deep relaxing breath and then exhaled it slowly.

"Alright then. If and when John hugs you, repeat the motions of that breath. You're safe now, Sherlock. You have my personal guarantee on that."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"John should be looking for you about now," Lestrade told him. "Are you ready to see him?"

Sherlock didn't immediately respond. "Ready? No, I'm not. Being ready implies that I'm fully prepared for everything that seeing him entails. But do I want to see him anyways, ready or not? Yes, I very much do."

Lestrade nodded. He looked back towards the garden. John was talking to Mycroft while Molly was sitting on the side of the fountain, giving a bottle to Mirabelle. The soldier's back was towards them and Lestrade looked at Sherlock to see his reaction.

The man's eyes were distant. Slowly and silently a glistening tear leaked out of Sherlock's right eye and wound its way down his cheek in a narrow rivulet. Lestrade felt his own eyes burn in raw sympathetic emotion.

Sherlock moved towards the others and Lestrade followed closely behind. As they approached the group, John caught the motion out of his peripheral vision and turned to look at Sherlock.

It took less than two seconds hesitation for the doctor to run towards Sherlock and throw his arms around him. Lestrade moved to look into Sherlock's eyes from behind John's back and he silently mouthed a single word to Sherlock. _Breathe._

Sherlock's widened eyes relaxed a degree as he did precisely what Lestrade had told him to do. Lestrade gave him a nearly imperceptible nod in return. At length John stepped back and Lestrade could tell that Sherlock's body visibly relaxed as soon as he was free of the contact.

"My, God. You're really here," John said, his voice thick with feeling.

"Yes John. I'm really here," Sherlock agreed softly.

Lestrade watched them as he moved to stand close to Mycroft. The Sherlock he knew before the fall was strong willed and resilient. The only thing he could do now was hope that this Sherlock still retained at least some fraction of those traits.


End file.
